


Altea Triumphant

by phabulousphantom



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Boats and Ships, Gen, I almost went insane tagging all the characters send help, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Navy, The Royal Navy, Zarkon is Napoleon, because they're French, established klance, everybody has a British accent, except for the Galra, so I guess they're not the "Napoleonic Wars" exactly, the Horatio Hornblower style AU nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phabulousphantom/pseuds/phabulousphantom
Summary: The year is 1804, and the tides of the Galran Wars have turned against Altea.Twelve years ago, when the Galra executed their king and Zarkon seized power, he declared war on the world--conquering nation after nation until only one remained. Altea: a single pillar standing between Zarkon and total domination. Out of options, Admiral Alfor has appointed his daughter as Commodore of a specialized fleet. Its flagship, theVoltron, is regarded as the most fearsome weapon on the water.Oceans are our battlegrounds.





	1. Broad Pennant

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm hella obsessed with the Napoleonic Wars and the British Royal Navy. So now this absolutely self-indulgent fic with Altea posing as England and the Galra posing as France exists. What can I say?
> 
> I'm aiming for some reasonably accurate historical fiction here, though I am but a simple Horatio Hornblower devotee, so do forgive any anachronisms. I'll be bending reality quite a bit anyway, so let's just catalog any mistakes under "creative liberties", eh? ;)
> 
> Fair warning, the development of Keith and Lance's relationship is not the story-focus of this particular fic, and will here already be established. (If you're after a Klance-focused slow-burn, feel free to check out my other Voltron fic _Bambi_.)
> 
> I honestly have no idea if anyone else (besides myself) will have any interest in reading this nonsense, so if you ARE, let me know with some comments and kudos! I will forever blow kisses your direction.
> 
> And with that - LET'S GO SAILING!

Even a lifetime spent on the water did not necessarily preclude one from seasickness. Allura ought to know. She had been in the service of the Altean Royal Navy from the age of nine as a sniveling midshipman, long before the Galran Revolution, and had begun every tenure aboard a ship with a nauseated stomach.

            Today, though, the ill-feeling was not born of the sea.

            As she sat at the back of the jolly boat, head held high while they rolled up and over the gentle swells of the harbor, her insides rolled as well. In her breast pocket was her new commission from the Admiralty. From her father.

            Allura Quintessa, Commodore First Class.

            The boat was bound for her new fleet’s flagship, the infamous _Voltron_. There was not a single soul in the Navy registers who did not know its name, the name of its captain, the unparalleled skill of its crew. The _Voltron_ had not lost a battle since its commission at the beginning of the war twelve bloody years before. Every sailor in the Service dreamt about the ship, about their share of the prize money such a ship incurred.

            Allura knew almost the entire Navy thought its captain a worthier candidate for commodore than she.

            Her ever-faithful steward, who sat just before her in the jolly, seemed to sense the thought as it entered her mind. Coran turned his head and offered a smile from underneath his thick, orange mustache.

            “It’ll be all right, ma’am,” he said, soft so as not to be heard by the rowers or the helmsman. “Sure as a squall. It will.”

            Allura let the briefest, smallest smile dart across her mouth. “Thank you, Mr. Smythe.”

            He gave her a nod and returned his gaze forward. Allura swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, though it did little good. For there was a lump in her gut, her lungs, and her heart just the same.

            She braced herself with each stroke of the oars, but was taken aback still as the jolly cleared the rest of the ships anchored in the harbor and the _Voltron_ came into view. At one hundred guns across three decks, the ship of the line cut an impressive visage atop the water. It lay at anchor, sails furled, hull gleaming in the morning sun. The paint was fresh, and black, save four stripes which ran from fore to aft in red, blue, yellow, and green. Unconventional for a Navy ship, but if there was one thing the _Voltron_ and its crew were known for it was unconventionality.

            Coran released a low whistle. “Beauty of a ship, ma’am.”

            Allura chewed her tongue.  “I know.”

            Part of her wished to go no further. Part of her wished to throw herself overboard into the sea and let the cold spring water seize every bit of her breath. The rest of her was determined to use that ship, and the blood of all the souls aboard it, to crush the Galra under the weight of its hull. The weight of her hatred.

            Her teeth cut in and drew blood from her tongue. Though the iron taste was familiar, it did little to quell her rolling stomach.

 

Keith’s eyes had glazed over long ago, vaguely focused on the half-empty glass of madeira on the table in front of him as Lance—who was also on the table in front of him—droned on and on. As was his wont.

            “…only saying the arrangement reeks of nepotism,” he said, unfolding his crossed arms to give a brief emphatic gesture. “Shiro deserved that promotion. We all know it.” Shaking his head, he flicked his gaze toward Keith. “Are you listening to me?”

            Keith made a noncommittal noise at the back of his mouth, which earned him a fierce glare from a pair of bright blue eyes. Ignoring Lance, Keith picked up the madeira and polished it off. The two of them were alone in the wardroom, waiting for the call to the main deck where they would line up with the rest of the crew to parade like a bunch of ducks for their new commodore. It wasn’t that Keith was pleased with their current situation, simply that he didn’t see the point in complaining. None of them could change anything.

            “The whole Navy reeks of nepotism,” he replied, setting the glass down and clearing his throat, voice sticky with spirits. “Nothing new.”

            Lance frowned so intently that the corners of his mouth seemed to reach the collar of his best uniform jacket. The shade of cyan was particularly striking against his sea-tanned skin, and Keith found himself distractedly admiring the curve of his shoulders, the contrast of the gold detailing, and near-sparkling white.

            “ _Keith._ ”

            He lifted his eyes to Lance’s face.

            “If Shiro had been promoted…”

            So would Keith have been. He held up a hand to stop Lance from finishing the rest of the sentence aloud. Promotion to captain was no guarantee, but had Shiro been made a Commodore First Class like this Allura Quintessa, the _Voltron_ would have been in need of a most-senior officer. And Keith a likely candidate.

            “Speculation, Lance,” he said and stood up, collecting his glass and making to disengage.

            Lance caught his hand and pulled him to a stop.

            “Don’t tell me you’re not upset,” he said.

            “Upset isn’t the right word.”

            Keith was furious.

            He slipped his hand free from Lance’s grasp, but did not move away. Lance tilted his head, studying Keith’s expression, trying to catch his eye and letting his lips purse back into that frown when he failed. Gentle, he raised a hand to Keith’s cheek and brushed his thumb along the scar that curved from below Keith’s eye to the corner of his jaw. A scar he’d earned fighting the Galra.  

            “We don’t have to accept this,” Lance said.

            Keith laughed outright—sharp and biting. “Of course we do. We’ve sworn an oath. We’re honor-bound. King and country.” He grabbed his cocked hat from beside Lance on the table and headed for the door. “It is our _duty_ to accept it.”

            He reached for the handle, but a knock sounded and he shied back.

            “Commodore coming aboard shortly, sirs,” said a voice on the other side of the wood.

            “Thank you, Mr. Kinkade,” Keith replied. “We’ll be up presently.”

            By then, Lance had fetched his own hat from the table and clapped it on his head. He gave Keith a look, which Keith returned, and together the pair of them left the wardroom behind. Neither spoke as they made their way above decks, Kinkade already long gone, likely off to collect the remaining officers. Keith squinted as he arrived at the top of the stairs and the sun shone down upon the ship in full glory.

            The deck was brimming with crew members, filing up from below decks to form their divisions for inspection. Keith and Lance parted ways with a nod, each en route to perform those inspections. As he reached his division, Keith ran a careful, spiteful eye over each sailor, determined to hunt down and eviscerate even the tiniest flaw. To his annoyance, and his credit, every one of them had turned out in perfect order.

            “At ease until you hear the whistles, gentlemen,” he said, passing a pointed gaze across the lot of them.

            “Aye, aye, sir,” came the chorus back.

            Gritting his teeth, Keith nodded, then turned on his heel and stalked to the quarterdeck, his head down, all but ignoring the salutes the crew gave as he passed, unconscious of how many of them jumped out of his way. When he arrived at the top of the steps, he lifted his gaze finally to find Lieutenant Holt saluting him, and Shiro, their captain, observing his ship’s goings on at the railing with an all-seeing eye.

            Keith nodded to Pidge and raised a knuckle to his forehead to salute Shiro as he turned. The man was absolutely resplendent in his captain’s dress uniform, sunlight catching the gold and making the cyan glow. He offered a subdued smile, the crinkle of his eyes distorting either end of the scar that bridged his nose.

            “How long until she’s on board?” Keith asked, stepping up alongside his captain and folding his hands behind his back, directing his gaze over the deck.

            “The _commodore_ is several minutes off yet,” Shiro replied and gave Keith a knowing expression out of the corner of his eye that made Keith flush slightly in shame. “The jolly boat is just there.”

            Shiro raised his single arm to point across the water at the speck of a boat barely emerging from the harbor. He didn’t let the gesture linger long, as if he was worried about the impoliteness of a pointed finger though the woman would be entirely unable to see him. Keith huffed a small, undisciplined breath.

            “Lieutenant…”

            Shiro’s voice intoned a warning.

            “Apologies, sir.”

            “I know it’s not the situation many of us hoped for, but we must trust that Admiral Alfor has our best interest at heart. Commodore Quintessa has a stunning reputation.”

            Keith raised his eyes to his captain, intending to call attention to the cadence of Shiro’s voice—one that spoke to the fact that the man was clearly trying to convince himself of the words just come from his mouth. The look was enough. Shiro tipped his head and gave Keith a warning expression.

            “Stow the temper, Lieutenant.”

            “Aye, aye, sir.”

            Chastened, Keith stepped back and left Shiro to his surveillance of the crew’s assembly. Pidge was quick, but sly, to edge up alongside him. She leaned over, voice a whisper barely audible over the noise of boots on deck.

            “He’s been stood there since before I went on watch,” she said.

            “And before that?” Keith asked.

            Pidge shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Hunk.”

            He’d had the watch before her. Keith frowned, and together the pair of them looked to Shiro. The man was implacable. Most of the time. When his stress did show, it always manifested in the strangest of ways.

            Lance arrived on the quarterdeck then, grumbling to himself until he lifted his face to smile at and salute Shiro. He received a salute from Pidge and gave one to Keith, then returned his attention to their captain.

            “Looking _very_ lively, sir,” he said, passing an appreciative gaze over Shiro from tip to toe.

            Shiro sighed and shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. McClain.”

            “Oh, my pleasure, sir.”

            Lance all but winked as he stepped away from Shiro to fall into place between Keith and Pidge. He chuckled at some expression of which Keith himself was unaware that must have been on his face. Lance was a peculiarly perceptive individual, but that went double when it came to Keith.

            “Don’t look so sour, darling,” he whispered, only to be heard by the two of them. “I’ve got plenty of compliments for you as well.”

             Blushing, Keith nearly opened his mouth to retort, but his rigid discipline tied his tongue into silence. He pushed the color from his cheeks with a deep breath. Most of the time, the pair were strictly professional in view of the crew. _Most_ of the time. Rumors were impossible to quell in a contained space that was home to nearly eight hundred souls either way.

            “Best keep them to yourself,” Keith replied. “For now.”

            Lance grinned as Keith briefly flicked a wry smile his direction. 

            Next to arrive on the quarterdeck was Hunk, who was pulling at the hem of his jacket in an attempt to better fit it over his broad chest and stomach. No tailor had yet figured out a method for turning the man’s measurements into a comfortable uniform. Hunk saluted Shiro, then Keith and Lance in turn.

            “The crew’s in place, Captain,” he said. “I’ve double-checked the midshipmen’s divisions and sent Mr. Griffin after the sideboys.”

            “Excellent work, Mr. Fitisemanu,” Shiro said, giving him an appreciative smile and a nod. His gaze turned to Pidge. “The colors, Ms. Holt?”

            “Already accounted for, Captain,” she replied. “Midshipman Leifsdottir should be raising them as we speak.”

            Reflexively, the lot of them turned to look astern. There, the massive Altean flag came into view, ascending the rigging, fabric billowing on the harbor breeze. A white field dominated by a stout, elongated V-shape in memorial pink. A symbol of victory. Of freedom. Sacrifice. A reminder that this was a war they were, in fact, losing.

            The flag rose steadily until it flew alongside the banner for the Altean Royal Navy—cyan blue with the same V-shape in white, though much smaller and situated in the top left corner. Keith found himself releasing his breath.

            “Let us hope that that is not the last time we see our ensign raised,” Shiro said.

            The statement weighed heavy on the air for it was an undeniable fact that, for some of them, it would be.

            Midshipman Griffin appeared at the top of the quarterdeck’s stairs, giving a salute as a string of breathless words spilled from his mouth. “Sideboys in place, Captain,” he said. “Commodore’s alongsides, coming aboard.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Griffin,” Shiro replied and nodded in dismissal. Griffin disappeared as Shiro cast his eyes briefly across his lieutenants. “Ready?”

            The four of them nodded and sounded, “Yes, sir,” in unison.

            “Then let us pay the commodore our respects.”

            Keith did not miss how his captain’s lips settled into a firm line that did not entirely hide his displeasure as he led the way down from the quarterdeck.

 

Allura’s breath caught in her throat as the Altean colors unfurled over the _Voltron_. With the sails taken in, the magnificent white was particularly visible, and would be for miles. Though it did not ease her nerves, the sight fanned the fire of determination in her breast. Hopefully that determination would see her through the nerves.

            As the jolly arrived alongside the _Voltron_ , a few of the oarsmen rose and stepped with practiced legs to secure the boat. The sea rolled beneath them, but they grabbed onto the ship’s hull, one foot in, one foot out of the boat. Before the jolly could shift, Allura found her own feet and ascended quickly to the ladder built into the ship’s side. She nodded at the men as she clung to her new flagship.

            “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, surprising herself with the confidence of her voice.

            They simply nodded back in bewilderment, unable to salute with their hands clutching the _Voltron_.

            Swallowing, Allura began to climb.

            It seemed an eternity between the bottom of the ladder and the top. In that eternity, she lived ten thousand lifetimes, saw ten thousand ends to ten thousand different battles. She aged and withered. She died young in combat. She saw every path to every outcome and each was soaked in blood. Only the shrill whistles of the sideboys brought her out of the reverie.

            The sequence of long, harsh tones was supposed to be a mark of respect. She had always found it irritating.

            Once her feet were planted firmly on the deck, the whistles stopped. She squared her shoulders and cast an appreciative eye across the ship. The whole crew had been turned out to greet her, and every one of them stood in perfect order. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was, actively having to work a startled expression off her face.

            A man in captain’s uniform, epaulettes on each shoulder, stepped forward and offered his salute. She knew him instantly—if not by sight, then by the aura around him. Takashi Shirogone.

            “Commodore Quintessa,” he said, and he had the very voice of a leader, “it’s my pleasure to welcome you aboard the _Voltron_.”

            “My pleasure to be here, Captain,” Allura replied. She offered her hand and they shook.

            “I’ll have the tackle sent down for your sea chest,” he said, summoning a midshipman from the ranks behind him with a mere flick of his wrist.

            The young woman went to work immediately, competently commanding a small number of men already near the edge. Allura could not help the glint of relief that passed through her. It was rare to see women in the Service, and the sight of one here might mean this crew would more readily accept her command. Coran appeared coming up the side of the ship just as the block and tackle went over.

            “Introduce me to your officers, if you would, please, Captain?” Allura said, already kicking herself for being overly polite. She would have to show strength here, not manners. Coran took his place behind her.

            “Of course, ma’am,” Captain Shirogone replied.

            He gestured as he stepped to the side, and four lieutenants, dazzling in their dress uniforms, came forward.

            “This is Ms. Katie Holt, fourth lieutenant,” he said, and a miniscule young person with wild hair whom Allura would not have guessed to be female gave a salute. That glint of relief grew brighter. A woman among the lieutenants was an even better sign.

            “Mr. Hunk Fitisemanu, third lieutenant.”

            A man of incredible breadth and height, but who had perhaps the kindest face Allura had ever seen on an officer, saluted next.

            “Welcome aboard, ma’am,” he said.

            Allura found a smile for him. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

            Captain Shirogone moved down the line. “Mr. Lance McClain, second lieutenant.”

            If Mr. Fitisemanu was a wall, Mr. McClain was a birch tree. Thin and tall, but graceful somehow. The salute he gave Allura was laced with an impish smile. She could sense trouble from this one right away. Captain Shirogone moved on.

            “Mr. Keith Kogane, first lieutenant.”

            Allura nearly stepped backward at the expression of pure fire that burned within the _Voltron’_ s first lieutenant’s eyes. They were dark, but in the same way the pits of hell are dark. Regardless, he was impeccably groomed and looked to be the model of duty and discipline, the salute he gave her almost artful in its forced deference. He seemed the sort that would look more at home when his uniform was torn and stained with blood.

            “Mr. Kogane,” Allura said and nodded—a warning and an acknowledgement that she had seen him for what he was.

            The man understood. And was yet unfazed.

            Allura turned to Coran. “This is Coran Smythe, my steward,” she said, grateful for some cover. Coran offered a gallant bow to the group of officers. “He will see to the stowage of my sea chest once it is on board. If you’ll introduce me to the rest of the crew, Captain?”

            Shirogone was, of course, prepared with a practiced line-up of the ship’s warrant officers. The master, responsible for navigation, was a taller, spindlier version of Lieutenant Holt who bore the same last name. Allura wondered if the two were related. The ship’s surgeon was a friendly-looking blonde called Romelle, followed by yet another inexplicable woman, Shay, who acted as purser. The boatswain was a lanky fellow, introduced as Rolo, and he seemed friendly with the quartermaster, a female called Nyma. A chittering and nervous man, Slav, was said to be gunner. The master at arms was a burly individual named Rax, and he was followed by a small swarm of four midshipmen—Griffin, Kinkade, Leifsdottir, and Rizavi.

            Allura almost could not believe how many of them were women.

            She only managed to regain her tongue when she found herself stood on the quarterdeck, right at the railing, almost eight hundred sets of eyes on her—waiting for some kind of speech. She’d had one prepared, but devil if she could remember it now.

            “Comrades,” she said, leveling her voice to its most inspiring. “It is a grave task we face. For over a decade now, the Galra have had their run of the world and we, glorious Altea, are the last remaining beacon of hope. We _cannot_ let that light go out. Together, we will turn the tides of this war toward freedom and away from tyranny! Together, we will free not only Altea, but the rest of the world! We will be triumphant!”

            An enthusiastic chorus of cheers and applause rose among the crew. So morale was high. That was good.

            Allura gave them a commanding smile even as she swallowed the lump that had risen once again at the back of her throat.

 

“How ‘bout that speech, huh?” Pidge said, sliding into her customary place at the wardroom table as she shed her hat and shook out her hair. A grin split her mouth, then she changed it to imitate the commodore. “‘We! Will! Be! Triumphant!’”

            Lance couldn’t help but laugh. The woman had only been on his ship for half an hour and she was already insufferable. Very, very easy on the eyes, but insufferable.

            “The crew seemed to like it,” Hunk put in. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt and jacket before laying the former across the bench and sitting down himself, stretching his legs out. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

            “The crew are idiots,” Lance replied.

            “ _Lance_ ,” Keith said, and the tone of his voice was a warning, but damned if it didn’t make Lance’s spine tingle in a good way.

            “What?” he returned as he let himself fall into his own seat at the table. “Someone has to speak the truth on this godforsaken vessel.”

            “Am I not Tiresias enough?” Pidge asked, slamming a fist on the table in mock discontent.

            “My apologies, Ms. Holt. Your prophetic ramblings will be the end of both nations and kings.”

            Pidge sat back with a satisfied huff and a, “Thank you, Mr. McClain.” Keith sat as well, but he looked far from satisfied.

            He said, “What starts in jest may soon end as self-fulfilling prophecy.”

            “The superstitious sailor Mr. Kogane has at last made his appearance, ladies and gentlemen,” Lance said and spread his hands in a theatrical gesture, which Keith did not look to appreciate.

            “Superstitions have their roots in truth,” he replied.

            “Shall we all wear albatrosses round our necks to prove him wrong?”

            Lance grinned at his fellow lieutenants and received a malicious nod from Pidge and an expression of trepidation from Hunk. When he turned back to Keith, his partner was all but glowering.

            “Oh, see. Now there’s that sour look again. And Commodore Quintessa the cause of it.”

            “ _You’re_ the cause of it,” Keith replied through his teeth. In a flash of blue uniform and black hair, he vanished from the room.

            “ _Exeunt_ stage left,” Pidge said.

            Lance fixed his eyes on the door, his jaw tight. He’d made a mistake in pushing Keith that far. He knew how unhappy the man was, even if he wouldn’t admit it himself. Lance was unhappy, too, and now it had begun to show itself in a particularly unhelpful way. He ought to apologize, but at that moment he wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. Or penitent.

            “If the crew like the commodore, that’s good news for us,” Hunk said, always the first to rescue an uncomfortable silence. “They’ll be more apt to obey orders. Keep morale high.”

            Lance fixed him with a flat look. “Shiro has done a fine job keeping morale on this ship high for twelve years.”

            “But the whole fleet?”

            “This is a new fleet,” Lance replied. “Shiro could inspire the whole _Navy_. He has done, in fact. Commanding this slapdash attempt at a special elite would be easier for him than tying a slip knot. And he didn’t have daddy working behind the scenes to promote him.”

            “Gentlemen,” Pidge said, looking over the rims of her glasses. “We’re sliding dangerously close to mutiny’s territory.”

            It was kind of her to soften the blow by shouldering the blame on all of them, but something about that boiled Lance’s blood. Half of him wanted to stand up and shout, “Let it be mutiny, then!” He did stand up, but he kept his mouth shut, storming out of the room much as Keith had.

            He heard Pidge’s muffled voice say, “ _Exeunt_ stage right,” through the wood after he slammed the door.

 

Takashi couldn’t bring himself to wallow in his quarters after showing Commodore Quintessa to her own—formerly his. He would be bunking in the ship’s second-best room, formerly Keith’s. Thankfully the shuffling of bunks and beds had stopped there, as Keith and Lance had agreed to share Lance’s quarters. Only time would tell if the inescapable proximity would drive his first and second lieutenants closer together or further apart. He wasn’t much looking forward to explaining that particular arrangement to the commodore either. Most of the unorthodox methods he employed for running his ship had escaped the eye of the Navy’s upper echelon. He was a captain who could deliver results, and so had been largely left alone. Unfortunately, now, being a captain who delivered results meant serving as the flagship of a rather bizarre fleet of other high-profile captains, and being the flagship meant carrying the commodore onboard. The upper echelon’s eyes were now unavoidable.

            Takashi sighed. Seemed he would wallow whether he retired to his quarters or not.

            All the same, he took himself up to the quarterdeck. Supervising the goings on had always made him feel slightly more in control. A captain knew he was never truly in control, not of anything, not really. His power was an illusion, but the best officer could craft that illusion so seamless that it appeared real. Keith had that gift, which unfortunately meant he could see through Takashi’s. He’d never resented the lieutenant for it. They’d served together since Keith had been a young midshipman.

            The boatswain stood watch, and gave Takashi a friendly salute as he arrived. Takashi nodded in return.

            “Anything to report, Mr. Rolo?”

            “Not at the moment, Captain,” Rolo replied. “Crew’s returning to duties. Should be ready to weigh anchor in the next hour.”

            “I’ll send Mr. Kogane to see to that as the time approaches,” Takashi replied.

            The relief in Rolo’s eyes went undisguised. “Much appreciated, Captain.”

            “As you were.”

            Saluting, Rolo returned to his position. Shiro tucked his arm behind his back and stepped up to the railing to look out across the _Voltron’_ s main deck. It was an old habit, though he no longer had a right hand in which to clutch his left. The missing limb still plagued him, painful phantom tingling never ceasing day or night. Many much more successful officers had suffered much worse. He chose not to complain. He’d never felt he had the right.

            Across the deck, the midshipmen were herding the crew hither and yon, doing their best but coming off like a quartet of yapping dogs all the same. Shiro smiled to himself. Let them learn. He was lucky to have such a fine set of young officers. Many ships had far fewer, and far less competent.

            He’d nearly relaxed into a state of empty supervision when a click of heels behind him and a stammered, “Commodore Quintessa, ma’am,” from Rolo tolled the death of Takashi’s reverie. He turned to receive the Commodore with a smile and a salute. He hoped neither looked forced to her eye.

            “Might I join you, Captain?” the commodore asked. It was not a question, nor a request.

            “Of course, Commodore.”

            Takashi stepped to the side to allow her room to join him at the railing. She took position, stance wide, shoulders back. Certainly she was compensating for her gender with the overly commanding way she conducted herself, but it did not read as such. It seemed to come naturally to her. “Seemed” being the operative word. She had the gift of illusion as well, which meant she would be exposed to Keith the same was she was to Takashi. And they would be exposed to her. That did not bode well.

            “Do continue to conduct yourselves as usual,” she said, offering a kind smile. “I’d like to observe how the _Voltron_ operates.”

            “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

            That had been his intention, but now that it was an order, Takashi would see it executed with the utmost precision. He would give her as little reason to doubt him as possible. Certain members of the Navy had not been discreet in expressing their discontent at her promotion. She would have heard the rumblings, and would know their content. He had to ensure, for the good of the ship, that she knew those rumblings had not come from him.

            Across the deck, things had settled as much as they would for a ship preparing to weigh anchor. Keith had seen to the embarkation of their food and water supplies long before the commodore had been brought onboard, so the worst of the fray had passed. Currently, the midshipmen were putting the crew of the watch to work running checks on equipment and rigging. Slav approached below and turned his face upward to Takashi and the commodore, saluting before he spoke.

            “The magazine inspection is complete, Captain,” he said. “Ordnance stored and secured.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Slav,” Takashi replied. “Be ready to weigh anchor before the next bell.”

            Slav nodded and opened his mouth, but with the commodore present, Takashi was in no mood for one of the gunner’s peculiar, and aggravating, ramblings.

            “That will be all, Mr. Slav.”

            He gave the gunner a pointed look. Slav saluted and slithered off below decks with a subdued, “Aye, aye, sir.”

            Commodore Quintessa passed Takashi a sidelong glance.

            “He seems an interesting choice for a gunner,” she said.

            “Mr. Slav has pioneered several storage techniques that are now in use throughout the Service,” he replied. “The man’s a genius. If a little…trying.”

            Takashi said nothing of the techniques Slav currently employed for storing gunpowder aboard the _Voltron_ that were _not_ approved by the Ordnance Board or the Admiralty, giving the commodore a tight smile instead. She responded with a knowing expression of her own.

            “Standing officers, hm?” she said, amused.

            “Standing officers,” Takashi replied with a nod. Slav had been, and would be, with the _Voltron_ for its lifetime.

            Other reports trickled in from various sailors about the ship’s readiness to set sail. Most of those delivering hesitated on whether to address Takashi or the commodore.  Most ended up speaking to both in tandem. Commodore Quintessa, however, never gave a response. She simply observed, expression unreadable, until Keith arrived at the quarterdeck to assume command. At his salute, she bristled. Ever so slightly. Takashi had to assume she had already sensed the lieutenant’s abilities.

            Keith went to Rolo to receive a report of the ship’s current status, then dismissed the boatswain to his other duties. His dark eyes turned to Takashi, awaiting an order.

            “Lieutenant Kogane, the ship is yours,” Takashi said, taking a step back from the railing. “Get us underway.”

            “Aye, aye, sir,” Keith responded. He drew in a deep breath and called loud across the deck. “All hands to weigh anchor!”

            The shout was echoed from mouth to mouth and accompanied by the appropriate blast of whistles.

 

The _Voltron_ swaying almost imperceptibly beneath her feet, Allura stood in her new cabin at the ship’s stern, watching the coast of Altea grow smaller and smaller with each passing second. The speed and smoothness with which the ship now moved was remarkable—a testament to the skill of its crew. She wondered still at her ability to command them.

            “Allura?”

            Coran’s voice was soft and searching. She let her breath out, and her guard down, turning to face him and offer a nervous smile. He had been her steward since she’d made post captain. It was refreshing having someone she trusted close by, someone who could call her by her first name without fear of disrespect. Someone she knew. Who knew her.

            “This is it, Coran,” she said. “Whether we succeed or fail, this is the last Altea has in her.”

            Stepping forward, Coran took her hand and folded it warmly between his own.

            “Then we must win.”

            He smiled a heartfelt, closed-lip smile. She returned it, though her expression wavered. Drawing in a breath, Coran moved away.

            “Perhaps this will cheer you up, ma’am,” he said and went to her sea chest. Opening the lid, he fished something from the top of the packed belongings. He tucked whatever it was behind his back before approaching Allura. “Put out your hands.”

            She did so obediently.

            Coran placed her broad pennant atop her palms.

            Her breath left her lungs in a rush.

            The flag was relatively small, almost triangular and ending in two points like a swallow’s tail, though Allura could not see them as it was folded. The field was pink, crossed by three white stars. In the Altean Navy, an officer’s broad pennant was unique to them. Allura had adopted a design that was the reverse of her father’s. She hadn’t yet seen hers in person. Coran had collected it for her from the Admiralty.

            “Let’s raise those colors, Commodore.”

 

The commodore’s broad pennant was carried personally to the masthead by Mr. Midshipman James Griffin. There it was hung and unfurled on the breeze, long tail trailing pink above the sails.

            For a moment, every topside soul paused to watch it wave.

            Some with anticipation.

            Some with apathy.

            Some with a venomous hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we talk about the way the British pronounce "lieutenant" as "leff-tenant" because it melts me.
> 
> Also, don't hold me to that chapter count because I'm embarking on this voyage on a wing and a prayer.


	2. Discipline

The _Voltron_ had perhaps been underway for half an hour when Lance was summoned to Shiro’s quarters to conference with the commodore and the rest of the commissioned officers. He refused—politely, but he refused—to even _think_ of the quarters as the commodore’s now. They should have been Shiro’s, and so Shiro’s they would remain. In his eyes, at least.

            Lieutenants Holt and Fitisemanu had beaten him there and were stood beside the table, hats tucked under their arms, faces worn with poorly disguised discomfort. Hunk was positioned at Lance’s usual spot, Pidge at Hunk’s. Commodore Quintessa stood at the table’s head, her steward behind her, and she gestured at the place across from Pidge.

            “Mr. McClain,” she said.

            “Ma’am.” He gave her a salute and went to the specified seat. Pidge raised her eyebrows at him. He returned in kind.

            Shiro was the next to arrive, and the commodore directed him to the table’s end, opposite her. Keith appeared right behind him. Allura indicated the place beside Lance. Regardless of the shuffling of typical seats, the pair hadn’t seen each other since their semi-spat in the wardroom. Keith didn’t even deign to look in Lance’s direction.

            “Comrades,” Allura said and motioned for them to sit.

            All four lieutenants glanced at Shiro.

            He grimaced, but turned it into a kind smile, which he directed at the commodore.

            “I think, Commodore, and I mean no disrespect by this, that the lieutenants might be more comfortable if they were allowed their customary seats?”

            Something unreadable passed across the commodore’s face—an expression like she was trying to determine if Shiro’s suggestion was insubordination, or perhaps if agreement to it would show weakness on her part, or if disagreement would seed tension among the officers. Lance pursed his lips. She was already too late on that account.

            “By all means,” she said, through her teeth, but she said it, and the four lieutenants shuffled round the table to their usual places.

            Lance sat at Allura’s left hand, Hunk beside him.  Keith took his place at Allura’s right with Pidge at his side. Even now that he was positioned across from Lance, he did not meet his partner’s eye, but kept his gaze fixed on the commodore. Shiro conceded control to her as he pulled up his chair at the table’s end. To see it made Lance’s jaw grit tight.

            Allura retrieved a map from her steward and unfurled it across the table, sliding a weight down to Shiro’s end to hold the thing in place. Everyone’s eyes turned to take it in. Arus—a small chain of islands southwest of Altea.

            “Our orders from the Admiralty are as follows,” the commodore said, folding her hands behind her back. “We will rendezvous with the new fleet off the coast of this uninhabited island north of Arus in three days’ time.”  Her steward handed her a wooden peg and she placed it on the map atop an image of what was basically a glorified sandbar. “Once all ships have arrived, our mission is the liberation of the Arusian home island, here.” She received a second peg which she set up on the largest of the islands, the one in the center. “Reports indicate that the Galra are increasing their command and supply posts in this area, as well as reconstructing former Arusian forts. We have reason to believe this is in preparation for an attack on Altean soil. Large numbers of Galran vessels have begun to congregate in these waters.”

            “With all due respect, Commodore, doesn’t that make it unwise for us to set our rendezvous point so close to the enemy?” Keith asked, raising his eyes from the map to Allura.

            “Speed and stealth will be crucial for the success of this mission,” the commodore replied. “Operations for every vessel, every strike team, land and sea, have already been set. We will rendezvous, brief all officers, and attack immediately. You will receive more specific orders at that time. With any luck, these will not remain enemy waters for long.”

            Pidge raised her hand, but did not wait for Allura to indicate that she should speak. “Speed and stealth are dependent, then, on the entire fleet’s timely arrival. Is there a contingency plan should one or more of the captains fail to meet the deadline? Or fail to arrive at all?”

            The commodore opened her mouth, but Hunk chimed in.

            “Are we expected to _clear_ Galra activity from Arus? In a single mission? If they’re amassing ships and building fortifications, what is one Altean fleet supposed to accomplish?”

            The commodore drew in a breath, but Pidge responded.

            “We’re five ships of the line, two frigates, and four sloops. Hardly a fleet,” she said. “Even _if_ everyone reached the rendezvous on time, we’d be outmatched on all accounts. Crew. Guns.”

            “We’re outmatched every time we face the Galra,” Keith said, voice low.

            “That hasn’t stopped _us_ from winning,” Lance replied.

            Keith met Lance’s gaze with a fiery, narrow-eyed stare. Lance returned it.

            “The fleet _is_ made up of the captains with the most successful track records,” Hunk offered, trying and failing to sound hopeful. Pidge was right there to shoot him down.

            “Which will only make it easier for the Galra to eliminate all of our most skilled officers in an afternoon,” she said.

            “Comrades, _please_.”

            Allura slammed a fist on the table, rattling the wooden pegs and tipping over the one positioned atop the Arusian home island.

            _Bad omen_ , Lance thought, then sneered for having let Keith’s superstition rub off on him.

            “It is no secret that Altea is losing this war,” the commodore said. “In spite of your best efforts, in spite of mine, in spite of every win every captain in this new fleet has added to the scale, it is not enough to tip the balance away from our losses. _Devastating_ losses. The Galra are preparing an attack against Altea. We must stop them by whatever means necessary. We are the Admiralty’s solution, and I expect each of you to answer the call. Is that understood?”

            Her eyes flicked fiercely across each of them, Shiro included, though he had done and said nothing. Perhaps that was why.

            “Aye, aye, ma’am,” the captain answered, firm and not in the least bit defiant.

            His agreement prompted a round of echoes from each of the lieutenants, now subdued. Allura took a step away from the table and nodded at them, letting her breath out.

            “Good. You’re dismissed. Whichever of you resumes command of the ship, set a course for our rendezvous. Not a word of what was spoken here is to be passed to any other soul aboard this ship.”

            “Aye, aye, ma’am,” they all replied and, with a wave from Allura, left her quarters.

 

Allura very nearly collapsed into her seat as the last of the unruly lieutenants departed. She would have done, had Captain Shirogone not lingered, holding his hat under his arm and looking like he had something to say. Allura all but glared at him.

            “Yes, Captain?” she asked. It took some effort not to spit the pair of words out.

            “I…apologize for the behavior of my officers just now, Commodore,” he said. To his credit, he did look rather ashamed. “It is no secret that the _Voltron_ operates under unusual methods, but…I fear I may have done you a disservice in not disclosing them.”

            She raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Then you always allow your officers to speak out-of-turn in disrespectful tones?”

            Turning his gaze to the ground, a small smile crossed the captain’s lips, but it was not a happy expression. “No, ma’am,” he said, lifting his eyes to her once more. “But we do have an agreement to speak freely during meetings of this nature. We’ve found it’s better for things to be laid on the table—ill feelings and doubts included—in order that we may address them. We all have a voice here. They’re a strong-willed and capable group of officers, ma’am. They respond well when they may freely choose to follow. And are more likely to follow when they feel they’ve had a hand in setting the course.”

            He offered her an apologetic but intentional expression to indicate he understood how clearly he had toed the line of insubordination.

            “Commodore, I have no intention of undermining your authority,” he continued. “I believe you are the right choice for this position, and I will follow your orders without question or hesitation. If I seem impertinent, please, believe that I have your best interest at heart.”

            Nodding at her, Shirogone took steps backward toward the door, but lingered still.

            “In the interest of laying everything on the table, a majority of the lieutenants question your promotion. If I may dare suggest, making an effort to maintain the order of this ship as closely as possible to their customary routines might ease their discontent.”

            Allura’s breath caught on the lump in her throat. She was certain the flash in her eyes was visible from across the room. She’d known her promotion was unpopular, but that “knowing” had merely been “suspicion” in truth. Now she _knew._ Beyond a doubt. Hearing it did little to quell her already queasy stomach. All the same, she did not begrudge Captain Shirogone his honesty. His goodness radiated off him like heat from black sand.

            “Thank you, Captain,” she said, though her voice was stiff and off-balance. “Your frankness is appreciated.”

            “I apologize, ma’am, for any—”

            Allura held up her hand and Shirogone fell silent.

            “Apologies are not necessary. We are the senior officers aboard this vessel, and you have spoken to me with admirable decorum. I see now that your exemplary reputation was rightfully earned.”

            He turned a little pink at the compliment. Allura couldn’t help but soften.

            “Captain, let there be no secrets between us. I am at your disposal.” She cleared her throat. “And I would appreciate your continued frankness in the weeks to come. It will be needed.”

            Shirogone held her eye, and an understanding passed between them. He knew as well as she did how desperate the war had become, how uncertain Altea’s future was. If this ship, this fleet, this plan, were to function at all, the pair of them would have to work together. Something told her that this was a man who would not be won over by posturing, but by a humble show of weakness. As much as it pained her to do so.

            “Do please keep me from upsetting the order of your ship as often as is appropriate.”

            Shirogone gave her a nod. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

            “You’re dismissed.”

            He swept his hat up to his head and gave her a salute in one swift motion, then disappeared through the door. Allura did collapse into her seat then and turned a weary gaze up to Coran. Her steward offered a hopeful shrug.

            “Of all of them, I’m certain the captain makes the most valuable ally,” he said.

            Allura drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. Her eyes fell across the map of Arus, the markers she’d laid out.

            “That’s just it, Coran,” she replied. “Aboard this ship, I don’t think there are such things as enemies and allies.”

            She reached to right the marker atop the Arusian home island, but the _Voltron_ hit a swell and the peg tipped over almost as soon as she had let go. Allura gritted her teeth.

            “At least, not until I came aboard.”

 

Generally, Keith was quite skilled in emitting an aura that warned his shipmates not to test him. Generally, that aura went obeyed.

            Generally.

            He was stood on the forecastle, legs braced for each swell that broke against the bow, relishing the wind and the salty spray, eyes nearly shut, absolutely radiating his desire for solitude, but it was not to be. A clomping of boots across deck. A clench of his jaw. A presence that entered his radius. Keith opened his eyes to glare over at Midshipman Griffin. Griffin, for his part, offered a dignified salute.

            “Sir,” he said.

            “Mr. Griffin,” Keith replied. He would encourage conversation as little as was possible while still maintaining diplomacy.

            “We’ve changed course, sir,” Griffin continued, and received a mere grunt from Keith in reply. “Leifsdottir says we’re headed for Arus.”

            “And by your calculations, Mr. Griffin?”

            He turned to regard the midshipman, knowing the comment would bite. As expected, Griffin glowered slightly. He had been a poor navigator since he’d come aboard, that was no secret. Always the butt of any joke containing a sextant. In all other respects a fine officer, and well on his way to a commission as lieutenant, but Keith was in no mood to hand out compliments. He was in a mood to fight.

            “I trust Leifsdottir, sir,” Griffin replied. “Therefore I have no need of my own calculations.”

            Keith clicked his tongue in distaste. “Then you’d best hope Ms. Leifsdottir will be able to track you down the moment your sorry ass receives command of a ship and you navigate yourself straight into the Bakku shoals.”

            With a nod, Keith dismissed himself from the forecastle, leaving Griffin with his mouth slightly open and a ruffled expression on his face.

            Irritated, Keith stalked his way across the deck, and proceeded unbothered until arriving at the stairs to go below. Romelle was coming up, and she offered him a salute.

            “Mr. Kogane, sir, you’re needed in the surgery if you have a moment?” She smiled, apologetic, as she could sense his mood.

            Keith sighed. “Very well.”

            Turning round, Romelle went back down the stairs, and Keith followed. Once they were both safe inside the surgery, Romelle closed the door. She pressed her ear to the wood and listened for god-knows-what until she was satisfied.

            “What seems to be the problem, Ms. Romelle?” he asked.

            Frowning, she went to her cabinets and opened the nearest. The shelves looked remarkably bare for the ship having just left port.

            “I had thought to make a more accurate catalogue of all our medical supplies, but they’ve gone,” she said. An emphatic gesture betrayed her dismay. “These shelves were full, sir. I stocked them myself.”

            Keith pursed his lips as he stepped forward to inspect the supply. Whatever had happened, it had been done carefully. Things would not have looked disturbed to a practiced eye, but anyone aboard the _Voltron_ would have known Romelle’s skill, known that she would notice if even a single tincture of laudanum went missing.

            “What do you suspect?” he asked.

            She shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of it. I’m bewildered, frankly.”

            Keith had to agree with her there. What use would any of the crew have for medical supplies? Food made sense when it went missing, spirits even more so, but bandages? Bone saws? None of the crew would have use for Romelle’s store unless Romelle or one of her assistants was doctoring them.

            “I’ll bring it up with the captain and commodore,” Keith said.

            Romelle made a face.

            “Something to say, doctor?”

            “Not exactly, sir. Only that the commodore and that steward of hers are the only souls aboard this ship who are strangers to us.”

            He sucked the insides of his cheeks, which in and of itself was likely too plain a betrayal of his feelings on the matter. He agreed with Romelle, but he could not be seen to agree with her. It was his duty to keep order aboard this ship, and seeding discontent and distrust against the commodore was the last way to achieve that. Even if he _didn’t_ trust the woman a single fathom.

            “Captain Shirogone and Commodore Quintessa should and will be informed,” he said, doing his best to sound confident. “I’m certain the both of them will be able to propose a reasonable solution.”

            “We _need_ these supplies, sir,” Romelle said.

            “They’re here somewhere,” Keith replied. “They haven’t walked off the side of the ship.”

            “It’s no secret we’re going to our deaths.”

            Keith’s eyes flashed a warning. “That’s enough, doctor.”

            Romelle drew a breath and let it huff from her nose. They were friends, the two of them, but neither could risk talk like that. She wet her lips before speaking.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone until I’ve spoken with Captain Shirogone. That’s an order. Understood?”

            She nodded. “It is, sir.”

            Keith chewed the insides of his cheeks then. This couldn’t get out. It would shred the already unstable chain of command, the tattered coat of trust they had all put on to appease the commodore.

            “We’ll solve this, Romelle,” he said.

            She looked at him. “Yes. But will we like the solution?”

 

Lieutenant McClain stood glowering on the quarterdeck alongside Rolo, who had remained officer of the watch and would for a little while yet. The commodore’s orders to change the ship’s heading had been irritatingly vague, so the responsibility had fallen to Lance—too senior to escape nomination for the task and not senior enough to pass it along to someone else. At the very least, he was assured distance from Keith. Things like “solitude” and “distance” rarely found berth aboard a ship of eight hundred. He could still see the man in question, across the deck and through the rigging, stood on the forecastle.

            “Might I ask where we’re headed, sir?” Rolo posited, glancing Lance’s direction for but an instant.

            “No, you may not, Mr. Rolo,” Lance replied with a sigh. He turned toward his shipmate and offered a smile. “Though nothing’s to stop you from doing calculations of your own.”

            Rolo returned a sly smile. He kept his eyes trained on the deck, making a show of observing, though Lance could tell it was merely an act. A good one, granted, but Lance saw through the mask as it was one he had often worn himself. Pidge had more than once remarked on her surprise at Lance’s having made commission at all. She was convinced he’d bribed the members of his review board.

            He hadn’t.

            “Commodore’s something, ain’t she?” Rolo said, tone innocuous.

            “Something, certainly,” Lance replied. He did a poor job disgusting his distaste.

            “You think the crew’s a little…ruffled?”

            In truth, Lance had given little thought or attention to the feelings of the crew. It had all been dwarfed under his own intense irritation with the situation. He thought back over preparations for their journey, over the state of his division when they’d turned out for inspection. They’d been rowdy and unready, which wasn’t unusual for his division, all things considered, but they rarely required harsh words from him. They had that morning, which was why he’d shown up grumbling on the quarterdeck.

            “Change of any kind does take adjustment,” Lance replied, choosing his words carefully.

            “Ah. And we’ll all get used to it, eh, Lieutenant?”

            Another sly smile from Rolo. Lance couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. They were too alike, the pair of them. Any answer Lance might have given to the question, however, was interrupted by the arrival of the ship’s master and quartermaster on the deck. Both offered their salutes to Lance, then Nyma went to her post beside the helmsman, and Matthew approached Lance, a pile of maps and books and equipment in his hands.

            “Have we changed course?” he asked.

            “We have, Mr. Holt.”

            Matt practically dropped his entire load. He bolted to a table tucked against the wall beside the helm and frantically sorted through his books and papers, taking measurements, consulting his compass, and making marks. He _looked_ frantic, at least. Lance knew him well enough to know that there was a precise method to the madness. In a flash, the master held a map in front of Lance with a course plotted.

            “Our destination?” he asked.

            Lance inspected the map. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say,” he responded. “Though I see no reason why _you_ shouldn’t be informed…” He looked around for someone to bark at and spotted Midshipman Rizavi stood on the main deck just below them. “Rizavi!”

            She stood at attention and offered a salute as she whirled around to face him. “Yes, sir!”

            “My compliments to the commodore, and could you ask her to attend us on the quarterdeck, please?”

            A hesitant expression flicked across Rizavi’s face, but she saluted with an, “Aye, aye, sir,” and disappeared below decks. Matt continued to measure and plot as they waited. Nyma and Rolo exchanged subtle expressions.

            Moments later, Commodore Quintessa appeared, stony-faced, at the top of the stairs to the quarterdeck.

            “What seems to be the problem, Lieutenant?” she asked.

            Lance let himself admire her appearance for a second or two. She was a stunning woman, really. Thick white hair and dark skin, bright eyes, with the carriage and command of royalty. Like a princess—but one with real authority who knew what she was doing. None of it changed his feelings about having her aboard his ship, however.

            “The master has inquired about the change in heading,” he replied, gesturing to Matt who had returned to his table. Lance faced Allura to flash a tight smile. “And I am under orders not to speak about it.”

            The commodore narrowed her eyes and her expression was so intimidating, Lance very nearly took a step backwards. In a single flash, she had communicated how little she thought of his conduct on the matter and how quickly she had seen through the slight he had tried to masquerade as following orders. He made a mental note not to underestimate her in the future. Perhaps she hadn’t earned her promotion for nothing.

            “Mr. Holt,” she said, voice strong and carrying easily across the quarterdeck. Matt snapped to attention and saluted her, pencil in hand. “If you would be so kind as to attend me in my quarters, we can chart our course together.”

            “Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am,” Matt said, gathering his books and maps and supplies in a hurry. His cheeks were flushed. One look at the commodore had put him right out of sorts.

            Allura flicked her gaze to each of them on the quarterdeck, let her eyes linger longest on Lance, as if to impress her disappointment, then she nodded and excused herself with an unassuming, “Comrades,” as Matt arrived at her side and the pair of them descended the stairs.

            Rolo, Nyma, and Lance gave their salutes—subdued, and slightly forced.

 

Following the meeting with the commodore, Takashi decided to retire to his new quarters after all. The only salvage from that disaster was the conversation he’d had with the commodore afterward. He thought highly of her and hoped he’d made that clear.

            Only time would tell.

            With a sigh, he removed his hat and set it atop his sea chest. He had only to take a single step forward before he could collapse onto the cot. Keith’s cabin was not unlike a closet, particularly when compared with Takashi’s former quarters. He caught himself feeling sorry for his first lieutenant for a moment—a ship of the line and this was the best they could do for the second most senior officer?—but he quickly realized that underneath that frustration for Keith was harbored a deeper, more latent frustration for himself.

            He let his breath out and shut his eyes.

            He would _not_ feel sorry for himself.

            Several minutes passed before he could relax, minutes in which that phantom tingling in his missing arm plagued him incessantly. No sooner had he fallen into a light sleep than a knock sounded at his door.

            “Lieutenant Kogane, sir,” Keith said on the other side of the wood.

            Forcing himself to sit up, Takashi called, “Enter.”

            Keith slipped quietly through the door and shut it tight behind him. Takashi offered him a weary smile from the cot.

            “Must be odd to come to your own room to find me,” he said, chuckling.

            Smiling a little, Keith shook his head. “Not at all, sir.”

            “What was it you needed?”

            A dark expression crossed Keith’s face and drew his brows together. “I’ve just come from the surgery. A good number of the supplies have gone missing.”

            Takashi sat up straight. “Missing?”

            “Romelle reported the occurrence to me perhaps only half an hour following our meeting with the commodore,” Keith continued. “She was going to draft an inventory list, but when she got into her cabinets, she noticed much of her new stock was simply…gone.”

            “What from the stock?”

            Keith shook his head. “She’s drafting the inventory now. Once she finishes, she’ll be able to tell us precisely what’s missing. Shay keeps good records. She’ll have a receipt for every transaction onshore.”     

            Takashi frowned. They’d rarely had a problem with theft aboard the _Voltron_. Most of the crew was wise enough to recognize that it did little good to steal from their shipmates. He had done his best to help mitigate any desire to do so in the first place. Everyone received an equal share, and the officers were careful with their earnings and how they represented their station in front of the crew. Besides, what was the point of taking _medical_ supplies? No one outside of Romelle or her mates had the skill to make use of them.

            “Do we have any suspects?” Takashi asked.

            Keith shook his head. “Only Romelle, myself, and now you know the supplies are gone.” He made a particular face.

            “And?” Takashi pressed.

            “The issue was raised that the only people aboard the ship whose character we don’t personally know are the commodore and her steward.”

            Takashi felt his blood run cold. He had trouble disguising the harshness of his voice when he spoke next.

            “Both of whom were with us when the supplies allegedly went missing.”

            “We don’t know when the theft occurred, sir,” Keith replied. As expected, he’d picked up on Takashi’s tone and became a little heated himself. “It could have happened any time before then.”

            “You do realize what you’re saying?”

            Keith’s mouth hardened into a line and he regarded Takashi solemnly. A breath huffed from his nose as he looked away. While his first lieutenant was hot-headed, it often only took a reminder of reality to bring him down to it. Keith stayed quiet for a moment, and Takashi kept his eyes on his face all that time.

            “Sorry, sir,” Keith said eventually.

            “Your feelings are yours, Lieutenant, and I won’t begrudge them you, but you _cannot_ betray any of them to the crew,” Takashi said. “We must support the commodore. You and myself in particular.”

            “I understand, sir.”

            “Do you?”

            Keith’s eyes flashed and he looked to Takashi finally. Takashi raised his eyebrows.

            “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Keith asked through his teeth.

            “Granted.”

            “Do _you_ support the commodore? Over yourself? Do you _honestly_ think she was right for the appointment?”

            Takashi drew in a breath. Let it out. “Keith…” he said, then looked at his lap and shook his head. “I understand your feelings, I do. I share them to a degree, and I owe it to you to admit that. Would I have liked to have been commodore? Of course. Would I have liked to see you appointed captain in my stead? Without a doubt. But that is not the way of things, and we cannot afford such petty, selfish desires. Not with the very nation at stake.”

            He brought his eyes up to Keith and was relieved to see that the lieutenant was listening. The words seemed to have affected him.

            “I will make an effort to better control my emotions, sir,” he said. “And to change them.”

            “Thank you.”

            “What of the supplies, sir?”

            “Have Romelle question her mates,” Takashi replied. “If she’s satisfied none of them are to blame, hostility intended or not, the lot of you may begin an investigation among the rest of the crew.”

            “Very good, sir.” With a nod, Keith moved to excuse himself.

            “Lieutenant?”

            Keith paused with his hand on the door handle.

            “In order for this mission to succeed, we must welcome the commodore into our ranks. Remain a team. Always.”

            Glancing back over his shoulder, Keith gave a firm nod. Takashi smiled, relieved.

            “Good man,” he said.

            Keith shook his head. “Not good enough.”

            With that, the lieutenant excused himself and clicked the latch quietly into place behind him. Takashi let his breath out and his shoulders sink, deflating back onto his cot after a moment. He massaged the bridge of his nose.

            Only a few hours out of port and already things had gone to the dogs.

 

Upon returning from his little powwow with the commodore, Matt had a few adjustments for their heading. He relayed the information to Rolo, who nodded at Nyma and the helmsman to make the changes. They did, and thus the _Voltron_ sailed on.

            Lance made himself busy with this and that, but none of it was quite enough to busy his mind as well as his body. He had the evening watch that day, and even responsibility for command and operation of the ship was not sufficient to distract him from thinking about the commodore, their heading, its destination, and what might happen when they got there.

            He’d worked himself into a fine exhaustion by the time Hunk arrived to assume the watch. Unfortunately, when Lance retired to his quarters and found a candle burning and Keith awake inside, any hope of immediate rest flittered away. Lance had forgotten about the shuffling of sleeping arrangements. But not about their argument.

            Keith looked up from a book.

            Lance said nothing.

            Neither did Keith.

            Shedding his hat and coat, Lance stepped over to his sea chest and retrieved a nightshirt from inside. He made certain to display the frustration he still carried with sharp movements and a slapping of fabric as he pulled his shirt off over his head. He was so intent on the performance, however, that he didn’t hear Keith rise, and jumped when the man’s warm fingers touched his back.

            Keith ran his hand along the scars that crisscrossed Lance between his waist and shoulders. He’d received them as a boy from a particularly cruel captain who had cared little for the type of punishment appropriate to one’s station. Lance had made some cocky comment or other, been written up for disrespecting a senior officer, and then appointed two dozen lashes from the cat.

            The nine-tailed whip wasn’t intended to lacerate, only to abrade, but the bo’sun had been unskilled and Lance’s skin delicate in his youth. Those knots had cut into the flesh and torn it like claws. Torn it to pieces until it was weeping and bleeding and had hung from his shoulders like mangled wings. He’d only just managed to survive the resulting fever and infection, to say nothing of the wounds themselves. He was lucky the ship had had a skilled doctor. Otherwise it was certain he would not have lived.

            “I’m sorry,” Keith said, voice soft but deep, his fingers pressing as they traced the line of a scar. Lance had to shut his eyes to keep his knees from going weak. “Tensions got the better of me.”

            “Not often one receives an apology from the infamous Lieutenant Kogane,” Lance huffed, glancing back over his shoulder to give Keith a wry smile. The expression didn’t last long, though. “I’m sorry as well.”

            Keith nodded, let his fingers drift back down the line of that same scar. Lance released a breath, and Keith stepped closer, his hands moving around to Lance’s stomach, then his chest, as he hugged the pair of them together and rested his cheek against Lance’s shoulder. Lance lifted a hand to rest atop Keith’s. They stood in the dim and the quiet like that for a long time, only the creaking of the ship and the odd call of the crew or distant chirp of a whistle between them.

            Eventually, Lance raised Keith’s fingers to his lips at the same time Keith touched a kiss to the skin of Lance’s shoulder. Then they released each other so Lance could continue dressing for bed.

            “What do you make of the commodore’s plan?” Lance asked, throwing his nightshirt on over his head.

            “Hardly a plan,” Keith replied. He sat on the edge of his cot and pursed his lips. “We don’t even know the details for the attack following our rendezvous.”

            Lance hummed in agreement.

            “Either way, I don’t think it’s the commodore’s plan.”

            Shrugging his trousers off, Lance raised an eyebrow at Keith. Keith looked up.

            “It’s the Admiralty’s— _Alfor’s_ —plan,” he said. “Quintessa’s just the means for seeing the orders executed.”

            “And I suppose next you’re going to tell me not to shoot the messenger?” Lance asked, rolling his eyes. He shut his sea chest and took a seat next to Keith on his cot, brows raised in a dry smile.

            “There’s not a power on earth could stop you from shooting whatever you pleased,” Keith replied, returning the smile.

            Lance leaned toward him to smooth his hair away from his face. “Is that right?”

            “So much better with a rifle than a sword,” Keith said with a dusky laugh as Lance ran fingers through his hair. “Should have been a marine.”

            “Mm,” Lance replied. The noise was noncommittal. He was occupied admiring the way Keith shut his eyes and pushed into Lance’s touch like an animal. His hand settled on the slope of Keith’s neck where it connected with his shoulder, and Keith opened his eyes.

            “You mean the world to me, do you know that?” Lance said.

            Keith smiled, tender and gentle. It was a rare expression for a face so often hard as his.

            “I love you,” he said.

            He reached and took hold of the wrist of Lance’s hand that was affixed to his neck, smoothed his thumb across the skin and tendons. Lance tugged him forward and pressed a fervent kiss upon his mouth.

            “And I you,” he replied, pulling back for but a moment.

            Keith placed both his hands on either side of Lance’s face, used them as anchors to pull himself forward for another kiss. His arms slipped around the back of Lance’s neck to hold their bodies closer when Lance kissed him back.

            Lance had a strange and dread premonition in that moment, one that crept up from the base of his spine to make every ounce of his body go cold, but it was soon forgotten when Keith ran his fingers up his spine instead and quickly raised the temperature of his blood.


End file.
